Lily On the Other Potter Children
by sammyiammy
Summary: Lily waxes completely unpoetic on the subject of Albus and James.


**This literally has no plot, it's just Lily, rambling about James and Albus. Exactly what it says on the tin. All characters herein belong to JK Rowling.**

I have literally nothing to do today and the Scamanders are busy doing something involving fishing, so I've decided to break out the journal Mum gave me when I was about four and couldn't even pronounce my own last name. Speech impediment. When I asked her what to write about, she suggested my brothers. So I will. Boredom is a terrible thing.

I have two brothers, eighteen and nineteen. They have really, _really_ stupid names. If one were to decide to be fair to them for some convoluted reason, they would point out that it's mostly my dad's fault that their names are so blindingly horrible. I think he went a bit bonkers when he didn't have an arch-nemesis to plot against any more, but Mum always tells me to weed the garden when I bring that theory up. We have a charm down to prevent weeds. She may, in fact, just be trying to keep me quiet because she knows it's the truth and doesn't want Dad to know we know.

Anyhow. Brothers. The eldest is James Sirius. Not too stupid a name in and of itself – the first part, at least. He was named after my dad's dad, who, apparently, looks just like my dad, who looks barely anything like James, and also my dad's godfather, who was a convicted criminal. I don't follow his thought process. James claims the name fits, so who am I to argue with a moron named after two dead men, one of which may very well have eaten rats at some point. Then there's Al, who actually does look an awful lot like my dad. _Our _dad, if we're being technical. Al's full name is Albus Severus, the stupidest name ever if we're not counting Hugo's middle name, which is truly unfortunate. I would tell you what it is, but I've been sworn to secrecy.

… alright, it's Polixenes. But I didn't say that and it has no relevance to my train of thought.

James is two years older than I am. He often claims that, not only can he remember those years perfectly, they were the best years of his life. My usual, highly thought out response to that is _shut up, James_. He used to share a flat with Scor Malfoy, but now he lives with his "girlfriend." There was no actual reason for those quotes. Also, he's an Auror, which, in case you didn't know, means he can get away with making really stupid mistakes like jumping through some old bloke with a head cold's window in the middle of the day without getting into trouble for it, all because my dad (Sir Harry Potter, title pending) heads the department. In case you were wondering, his excuse for that one was that he thought the poor sod was dealing in illegal potions. It turned out he just liked the bottles. That translates as: James is a complete moron. Needless to say, he's my favourite brother.

Al is legally a year older than I am but usually acts like he's a toddler. An overly sexualised toddler. Don't think too far into that one. I've taken to eating breakfast in my room on days when my parents aren't at home because Al almost always has some strange bloke he'd had over eating with him and the kitchen table. Yes, he still lives at home, it's a big shock for me, too. Basically, he does nothing during the daytime but lounge about and give his opinions to people who don't want them, and nothing during the night but try to get various men to buy him drinks. I call him a call-girl a lot. He doesn't appreciate it. I call him a gold digger even more. That one he can't really argue with. Oh, a slag as well, but that was once and he deserved it. He'd broken up with Scor in order to go around with some Hufflepuff bloke. Or that was the part of the story I listened to, anyway.

An average dinner in the Potter household (that's our last name, if you didn't catch it by now) goes like this:

** Dad:** Can someone pass the soup, please? *has a spoonful* Oh, God. Ginny, did you cook again, because this *elbow from Mum* is _delicious._**  
Mum: **I did. James, Al, Lily, what do you think?**  
James:** I'm not here right now because I'm living in London. But, if I were, I'd make a comment about Quidditch or the weather or something to keep Mum from going berserk.**  
Mum:** Albus?**  
Al:** It tastes like what heaven sounds like.**  
Me:** Heaven doesn't make a sound, Al.**  
Al:** I meant what people make heaven out to be, stupid. I _know _heaven doesn't make a sound.**  
Me:** Don't call me stupid, stupid, I got twelve NEWTs. How many did _you_ get?**  
Al:** None. Which means I have no prospects in life.

Except that last part only happens in my head, most of the time. Really, it's:

** Me:** Don't call me stupid, stupid, I got seven NEWTs without resorting to cheating off of Hugo. How many did _you_ get?**  
Al: **Seven.**  
Me:** Yeah? Well. You sleep with anyone who–**  
Mum: **_Lily._**  
Dad:** Both of you. Bed.

The moral of that story, by the way, was that no one ever asks me what I think about the soup. Or any of Mum's terrible cooking. The other, arguable more important moral that's not actually a moral is that Al and I are both home for the summer. Morgana help me.

_Lily _

PS. If my description didn't make it clear, Al is about as straight as a maypole that's been shoddily converted into a stripper pole for a pride parade, then painted with a rainbow. And I still almost sort of love him.

PPS. More than I do Fabio. Because I'm sure that question'll come up eventually.

PPPS. But James is still my favourite.


End file.
